Here

This faithless town
is where
even YOU
are suspicious,
you callow and
pale gentry's son,
you parasol-daughter.

This is that little corner
of the coverage map
where cell service
is a
big
white
gap-toothed laugh
in the face of modernity.

Here we
find fear and
paranoia as means
and not maladies.

The worst part is
this may be
one of the better neighborhoods.

Catfish start to poison themselves
in bottom-feeder suicide
and take us all down with them.

TVA pulls out, cuts all ties.

The dams break and our fields flood again.

"HERE, IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED"

All the nice antibiotics and heavy metals just floodin'
right on up to yer doorstep.

Reckon how much mercury go for at
the scrapyard?

Y'all happy yet?

"The Graveyard Sure is a Lonesome Place"

Shifts come out
whistling steam whistles
whistle in the dark
cold
sausage stink
and like
Ol' Choctaw chiefs on the run
they hit the
pavement
in deerskins and
war paint.

So
the ghosts
patch the holes
in their soles
so they got
boots on a glass-half-empty
full moon, Magha Puja to be exact.

Pullin old
light-moon food engines
in the winter's glass-half-empty
Heart ghosts.

Well take the furniture please
because I always thought
under street orange
you might
hate me so
dearly
and I had just hoped
you'd say just about anything.

Now here I'm in trouble y'all.

I've got dice and a bible, a 9mm
and crying swarming
eyes like
the river surrounding
a heart that
just wants you to say
anything.